ters, even, were old people now; that one of the sons
died only a week ago, and wasn't buried yet; and that this son had
left, fatherless, a little baby girl, not much over six months old,
who, if she should live, might one day become the Queen of England.
Such is my earliest recollection in connection with the illustrious
lady who still, happily, sits upon the English throne.

I am an old man now, but I remember that being without a King made
me feel very uncomfortable then, particularly at night. A few days
afterwards, however, there was a sound of trumpets in the street, and
a number of elderly gentlemen, in very queer dresses and curious hats,
stopped opposite our window, where one of them, standing upon a
stool, read something from a paper. When he had finished, the trumpets
sounded again, and I knew there was a new King, for all the people
shouted, "God save the King." Then, for the first time since the fatal
day, I felt re-assured; and I went to bed that night free from the
dread which had been instilled into my mind by a very judicious nurse,
that Bonaparte might come in the dark; steal me and my little brother;
and cook us for his Sunday dinner.

Soon after this I had frequent opportunities of seeing a veritable
Queen. The unfortunate Caroline, wife of George the Fourth, lived at
Blackheath, and drove occasionally in an open carriage through
the streets of Greenwich, and there I saw her. I have a perfect
recollection of her face and figure. A very common-looking red face
it was, and a very "dowdy" figure. She wore always an enormous
flat-brimmed "Leghorn" hat, trimmed with ostrich feathers. The
remainder of her dress was gaudy, and, if one may say so of a
Queen's attire, rather vulgar. She was, however, very popular in the
neighbourhood; and when, at her great trial, she was acquitted, the
town of Greenwich was brilliantly illuminated. I remember, too, how
she, having been snubbed at the coronation of her husband, died of
grief only three weeks afterwards, and how in that very month of
August, 1821, which saw her death, her illustrious spouse set forth,
amid much pomp and gaiety, on a festive journey to Ireland.

In October, 1822, I saw the King himself, on his way to embark at
Greenwich, for Scotland. I remember a double line of soldiers along
the road, several very fussy horsemen riding to and fro, a troop of
Cavalry, and a carriage, in which sat a very fat elderly man, with a
pale flabby face, without bea